It’s All About the Symbolism, Baby

When I was in high school (pause for mental math to determine just how long ago that was. It’s a long pause. Dang.), we had three diploma tracks: Vocational, College Prep, and Honors. When I was in 9th grade I was in the College Prep track but had recently tested for Honors and passed the qualification tests. I was set to start 10th grade with smaller class sizes and a more focused curriculum, and my friends (who were already in Honors) were already warning me about a certain literature teacher that I would eventually have and her propensity for being big on symbolism.

Yes, apparently it was such a big “thing” that it made it through the nerd grapevine. And yes, there is such a thing.

Anyway, for whatever reason I’ve always bucked the idea that you need to look at hidden meanings and…well, the symbolism of something. I listen to songs and enjoy them for their music or beat and rarely their words.  I watch movies for the way things blow up or make me laugh, not the way they move me (as if that would ever happen). It’s not that I lack depth, but rather than I tend to take things at face value whenever I can. Oh sure, if I’m forced to, I can seek out a greater message, and I can usually pick up what the author/songwriter/artist/playwright/screenwriter was trying to say, but it’s not usually a priority for me.

I should clarify here that the above paragraph was completely and unapologetically the teenager version of me. Since having my own family and gaining a little wisdom, I have learned that there can be…some…satisfaction to be gained by looking past the words and sights you encounter.

But I still prefer explosions and a kickin’ drum beat.

Now back to my 16 year old self.

Probably not without coincidence, English/grammar/literature/etc. has always been my least favorite subject(s). Load me up with some history or give me a math class any day. I’ll take science in a pinch, but let’s not delve into the language arts. Oddly enough, I love to write. Go figure. Combine my least favorite subject with a teacher that loved symbolism so much she actually had a reputation for it, and you can imagine how excited I was.

Oh boy. It was the perfect storm.

The only saving grace was that it was British Literature, which is far and away better than American Literature. Give me Beowulf over The Great Gatsby any day.

Unsurprisingly, we butted heads. Quite often, actually. With every story or poem we read I interpreted it at face value. And with every one she forced us to look beyond the words and see the symbolism. She was fond of questions like, “What was [insert author] thinking about when he wrote this?” or “How do you think he felt?” or….

Blah blah who cares?

Two events stand out from that class where our head-butting reached a crescendo. The first happened during a poem assignment. I forget who it was or what the name of the poem was, but I do remember it involved a beach scene. The words described the waves crashing on the shore and washing away sand and so on. Now, if I’m being honest, it was very plain to see what the author was intending the poem to actually represent, which had little to do with a beach or waves. But I chose not to see it that way, and instead insisted that he could have simply been sitting in a beach house looking through a window at the very images he described in his verses. I simply saw no need to look beyond the beach scene since I enjoyed it as it was.

Now, if we’re being objective, I think we can all agree that both viewpoints are correct. Some people simply don’t need to look beyond the actual words and can still enjoy the work, but I know others most definitely get a greater enjoyment of a piece when they do. It’s like people who like their food plain versus those who are more adventurous.

I’ll give you one guess as to which one I am.

The end result of this head-butting session, which took up a good 5 minutes of class time I might add (by the way, you’re welcome, class), was me asking, “But how do you know that’s what he was thinking?” to which she replied, “We just do. You’re wrong.” Ah well, there was always next time. And oh, were there many next times…

Such as the time when we had a essay assignment to review and analyze some aspect of a piece of work. I don’t remember the exact story (for some reason I think it might have been Othello), but at any rate I wrote my entire essay and analyzed it differently than I knew she expected. It was easy to infer her expectations by the definition of the assignment, but I…I took the road less traveled by, and well, that made all the difference. At least in my grade.

Yeah, I got a C on that paper, and I never got Cs. But did I care…?

Actually, yes; quite a bit. I hated bad grades. I put a lot of effort into this paper and I was proud of it. Honestly, I figured it was going to be graded fairly since the assignment was essentially one rooted in opinion. However, the only marks I had on the paper were not ones of quality but rather of substance. She systematically ‘corrected’ my opinions with explanations of why they were wrong.

Approaching her after class, she had a glint in her eye that told me she was expecting me. I was glad to not disappoint. I pleaded my case but ultimately the grade stood unchanged. Probably less for what I’d done and more for why I’d done it. It still stung for a day or two, but I learned two valuable things after that. First, I learned that this teacher and I were never going to see eye to eye on this subject, so earnestly trying to get her to accept my insights were at best fruitless and at worst damaging to my grades.

Second, I learned sometimes it’s better to just stand down instead of trying to force my views to be accepted by someone else. I realized there was absolutely no way to convince the Queen of Symbolism that things could be written intentionally shallow, so continuing to do so would only damage her opinion of me and would only frustrate us both further.

So…I backed down.

Well, sort of.

Oh, we still butted heads (I had a reputation to keep up!), but afterwards it was always playful and would usually elicit a smile or a playful eye roll from her. I also got even more far fetched with my suggestions for the fun of it – just to see how she’d react. And wouldn’t you know it – sometimes she actually gave them consideration…

…before moving on in the ‘right’ direction.

Before I wrap this up it’s important you understand that I can’t think of a single teacher in my entire schooling career that I disliked and certainly none that I disrespected. Never being a note-taker, I learn and retain best through interactions with the instructor. I had great relationships with most of them and even still keep in touch with some to this day. This teacher was no exception, and I truly did end up respecting her a great deal – much more than I thought I would. In the end I enjoyed her class more than any other literature class–

Ok, not so much for the content because that has to go to my freshman literature class at Georgia Tech where we read nothing but science fiction. Having Blade Runner as assigned reading? Yes, please!

[ahem] Anyway, as I was saying, I enjoyed her class immensely because of the back and forth we shared. It made the normally boring and unexciting literature class enjoyable and fun. I’d like to think that it made her enjoy it more too.

Then again I’m probably reading too much into it…